


warming up and shining

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Disorders AU, M/M, larry stylinson - Freeform, one direction - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 10:47:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They all have defects in their brains.<br/>(Or in which Harry has palilalia, Liam has Tourette’s, Niall has aritmomania, Zayn has nosophobia and Louis has an obsessive-compulsive disorder and they all meet in a doctor’s waiting room.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	warming up and shining

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first au thingy i've written ooo
> 
> disclaimer etc.

When Harry enters the doctor’s waiting room, there’s only one person in there. The lad has really short, brown hair, can’t be much older than he is and is reading a magazine. When he hears Harry, he looks up and smiles politely, brown eyes crinkling at the corners and inviting Harry to smile back.

He does.

So the curly haired boy lowers himself in another chair and before he can decide whether to pick up a tabloid or a life style magazine, there’s a stumbling sound and a door opening and then there’s three of them.

Liam blinks, a lot.

The new addition is blonde and panting and fills up the room instantly with sounds and something Harry can’t quite put a finger on.

“’Ello,” the lad says, and then sits down. “I’m a bit late – isn’t the doctor here yet?”

The brown-haired boy is smiling again – _smiling suits him_ , Harry thinks – when he answers. “No, he isn’t yet – his assistant said his plane was delayed, or something. Said she’d let me – us – know if there was any news.”

“Oh.” And there’s a short pause, but it seems that pauses don’t last with the vibrant and apparently Irish lad in the room. “So, yeah. I’m Niall, hi.”

“Suck your mother’s dick,” the brown-haired boy answers, and he blinks.

Which is, to be honest, one of the most unexpected things Harry has ever experienced.

The room is heavy with his and Niall’s shock, but brown eyes quickly grow large and apologetic. “Oh my god,” the boy gasps, “I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.”

“Did you just tell me to suck my mum’s dick?” Niall asked incredulously, roots of anger sprouting in his voice.

“I did? I did, oh god, I just – I’m so sorry, please forgive me, I can explain – _stick it up your arse._ ”

“What the fuck, dude? What is wrong with you?”

“No, just, I _really_ didn’t mean to say that. I’m so sorry! I can’t help it, these things just slip out my mouth, it’s not on purpose.”

Harry and Niall are both sort of gaping at him.

“’S why I’m here, you know. I heard this doctor can help me get rid of this, he’s kind of famous for those kind of things – though I’m sure you know, since you’re both here – and I’m just really sorry, please forgi-”

“So you did just tell me to suck my mother’s dick,” Niall says slowly, not completely convinced, “but it wasn’t on purpose.”

The brunette swallows uneasily. “Yeah… Uhm. Have you ever heard of Gilles de la Tourette?”

 _Oh_ , Harry thinks, because he has heard of that. He can see Niall has, too, because there’s understanding leaking into his eyes.

“So I can’t control it – I mean, I _try_ , but it’s hard. Impossible, really.”

He meets Harry’s eyes with his, and Harry smiles and nods shyly. _It’s okay, I get it._

“Oh well, if it’s like that,” Niall shrugs, and his brilliant grin is plastered on his face again. “S’alright, mate. So…?”

“Hi, I’m Liam.” They shake hands.

Niall’s attention wavers to Harry then, who’s just sitting and watching and saying nothing. “You’re being awfully quiet over there, mate – you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” replies Harry. It’s barely audible. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

When no one says anything, Harry realises he’s expected to introduce himself.

“I’m Harry,” he tells them, a bit louder this time. “I’m Harry.”

“Nice to meet you, Harry,” Niall grins.

“ _Fucking arsehole_ ,” Liam coughs, and it’s immediately followed by a wide-eyed, “Oh my god, I’m sorry. I mean it’s nice to meet you. I’m so sorry.”

And Harry smiles and nods at the both of them because that’s really what he usually does.

Niall scrapes his throat. “So, Liam. How often do you exactly get these… bursts? Per day, I mean.”

Liam blinks at him and wipes his eyes furiously. “I don’t know?”

“Really?” Niall presses incredulously, “You’ve never had the urge to count it?”

“Not really, no.”

“Oh well.” Niall doesn’t seem taken aback at all. “Let’s see… You just had three bursts in exactly four minutes and twenty-two seconds, since I entered the waiting room. Which means that you get them approximately every eighty-seven point thirty-three seconds. Since there are sixty seconds in a minute and a thousand, four hundred and forty minutes in a day, I’d say you get – roughly estimated – seven million, five hundred forty-five thousand, six hundred bursts a day.”

Harry stares.

Liam blinks.

“Unless you don’t get them while you’re asleep. Do you?”

“I… don’t,” replies Liam. “ _Cunt_. Oh my, I’m sorry!”

The blonde rolls his eyes. “S’alright, mate. Stop apologising, you obviously can’t control it!”

“Yeah. Okay. Sorry.”

The door opens and there are two people coming in – a young woman with glasses and high heels and a lad, dark-haired with ditto eyes, dressed in a leather jacket and carrying a backpack.

“Hello,” the woman greets them. “I’m doctor Cowell’s assistant. I have just received a phone call from the doctor himself and his plane from Frankfurt will leave in half an hour. He apologises for the inconvenience and hopes to be with you soon.”

“In half an hour?” Niall questions, “But – how long will we have to wait here, then?”

“Not too long, we hope,” the assistant says. “We’re really sorry,” she adds, and she leaves the room.

“Well,” the blonde says, “That man is lucky he has such a brilliant reputation, or I’d be out of here. I’ve been waiting thirteen bloody months for this appointment. That’s three hundred ninety-six days, or nine thousand, five hundred and four hours, or five hundred seventy thousand, two hundred forty minutes, or thirty-four million, two hundred fourteen thousand, four hundred seconds!”

Meanwhile, the dark haired boy has taken off his backpack and has begun rummaging around in it. Eventually, he pulls out tissues and a bottle of – is that _detergent_? – and starts cleaning a chair. When he finishes, he sits down and pulls out another bottle, squishes something on his hands and rubs it in.

“What’s that?” Liam asks curiously, and takes the first bottle from besides the lad’s chair. “Cleaning liquid?”

The dark-haired boy gasps loudly. “What are you doing?” he snaps and snatches it back, after which he immediately drops it, as if it’s on fire. “Oh my god.” And then he’s gone, running straight for the door with _Toilets_ on it in copper letters.

_What even?_

Harry barely understands what’s going on. Ever since he entered room, odd things were happening, odd and more odd and downright _weird_ and he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. Just. Odd.

“Bonkers, I tell ya, that one,” Niall comments.

“ _Filthy cocksucker_ ,” Liam agrees, before clasping his hands over his mouth with a shocked expression.

But then the boy is back, tissues to the ready, and pulls out another bottle, which he uses to clean the bottle he dropped. Then he washes his hands again and sits down serenely.

“Hello,” Liam begins, “I’m Liam.” He reaches out to shake hands, but the lad shakes his head.

“No, I’m sorry, I don’t shake hands. But I’m Zayn, nice to meet you.”

Liam’s arm falls at his side again.

“I’m Niall. Why don’t you shake hands?”

“I just – I don’t. Do you know how many diseases you can get from shaking hands? Hands are like, full of bacteria. It’s gross.”

Niall stares at him like he’s crazy – and Harry thinks maybe he is. But aren’t they all, a bit?

But Liam looks like he understands. “Oh, I heard of that – read about it while looking stuff up about Tourette’s. Nosophobia, isn’t it? The fear of catching diseases.”

“Yeah.”

“I feel for you, man. It must be really hard for you to _suck your grandpa’s dick._ ”

Zayn almost chokes on his tongue.

 _It’s really quite the funny sight_ , Harry muses.

“I’m so sorry!” Liam cries out, blinking furiously, “I didn’t mean to say that!”

Niall goes to clap the choking lad on his back –but when he does, Zayn launches himself across the room, into the loo. Harry thinks he can hear him whimpering.

“Oops.”

Niall starts laughing loudly then.

The door of the waiting room opens, and Harry’s vision suddenly seems a lot brighter because _dear god_. A boy steps inside and – well. He’s really quite beautiful. And. Yeah.

He has brown hair – it’s feathery and a bit messed up, as if it’s been blowing hard outside – and a tanned skin and he’s not very tall and Harry is pretty certain he’s never even seen that shade of blue before and _is it supposed to be that hypnotising_?

“Hello,” the boy says. “Are you all waiting for doctor Cowell, too?”

“Yeah, his plane has been delayed. Could be a while. I’m Liam.”

“I’m Louis.” _Louislouislouislouis._ Harry likes it. _Louis._ Oh god, what’s even gotten into him?

“My name’s Niall, and this is Harry. He doesn’t say much, just so you know.”

He blushes. “Hi,” he whispers, because that’s all he can manage right now. “Hi.”

“Hi, Harry,” Louis smiles at him and looks him straight in the eye and straight _into his soul_ but Harry’s overreacting and he knows it but, yeah. Shit.

“So why don’t you say much, Harry?” Louis asks, like he’s genuinely interested. He isn’t used to that because – well. No one’s ever really interested in him, anyway.

“I’m,” and he scrapes his throat because his voice is a bit rough around the edges, “shy.”

“Oh, but there’s no need to –” Liam starts.

And Harry tries so hard not to but – “I’m… shy.”

“S’what you said, mate.” Niall says, and Harry feels the warmth creep up his cheeks.

“No need to be shy,” Liam continues, “I’m friendly.”

By now, Zayn has made his return from the bathroom and has quietly slipped on his chair again, after washing his hands for the – how manieth? – time.

“Oh, Zayn! You ran off before we could explain but Liam here” – Niall grasps Liam’s shoulder at that – “has the Tourette syndrome, so he sometimes says dirty words or like, insults people without meaning to. He’s not doing it on purpose.”

“Oh,” Zayn then gives Liam a small smile. “Okay.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“It’s okay, man.”

“Hi, I’m Louis,” Louis introduces himself to the dark-haired boy.

Harry takes a breath. “I’m Harry.” And another one. “I’m Harry.”

And before Zayn can reply, the assistant is entering the room again. “Oh, hello. I’m just here to inform you that the doctor’s flight has just departed. He’s expected to arrive here in two hours.”

“ _Go fuck yourself_ ,” Liam informs her.

“Two hours?” Niall screeches, while Liam is stumbling over his sentences trying to apologise and explain.

“Yes. We’re very sorry, once again, for the inconvenience,” she says, while swiftly leaving the waiting room and shutting the door behind her.

“So what are we going to do for two whole hours?” Louis asks. “I waited eight months, so I can wait a couple of hours longer. But I’m warning you, I am going to be bored.”

“I don’t know, but two hours! Hundred and twenty whole minutes! Seven thousand and two hundred seconds! It’s quite scandalous, really, isn’t it? Like I said, he’s lucky he’s famous, that doctor.”

“Why don’t you start by getting away from the door, Louis,” Liam proposes, and Harry notices that the boy indeed hasn’t moved since he came in, which he’d failed to notice, because _his face_.

The feathery-haired lad hesitates, though. “Uh… Yeah.” After which he proceeds by climbing on a cabinet that’s standing against the wall he was standing next to, holding himself up at the shelves.

Everyone is staring. Odd, more odd, _weird_.

“Uhm, Louis? What are you doing?” Zayn asks when Louis pulls a magazine from a shelve and rips the pages out, spreading them across the floor.

“So, I” – he hops from one page to another – “I have this problem – it’s, it’s called an obsessive-compulsive disorder. There are lines on this floor, between the tiles. I can’t walk over lines, something in my brain is, like, _restraining_ me from crossing lines. And symmetry, everything has to be symmetric.” He’s reached a chair and sits. His chair is next to Harry’s, and Harry likes that very much.

“ _Shitstain_ ,” Liam coughs, but no one even reacts anymore.

“So,” Louis looks a bit uncomfortable. “What are you guys here for, then? Apart from Liam and his Tourette’s.”

“Well,” Niall starts, “I don’t really have a problem, you see. I’m just here because my mum told me to – she thinks I have this obsession with numbers and calculations and shit. But it’s not a problem.”

But when Harry thinks about it, it _did_ seem a bit unhealthy.

“I have an extreme fear of catching diseases,” Zayn tells them. “Everything needs to be clean, and… I don’t touch people. Ever.”

“Wow, that must be quite awful. Can you not like, give hugs?” Louis asks, and suddenly Harry is distracted by how nice it would be to get a hug from Louis. He’d be all warm and smelling nice and arms around his neck and.

“Nope.”

“Oh, that’s… that sucks. What about you, Harry?”

The curly-haired boy jolts when Louis addresses him, even though it was to be expected. “I… uh. I, uh.”

“Yeah?”

“Uh, basically, I say everything twice.” It’s the longest sentence he’s said since he entered the room.

“Real-”

“Uh, basically I say everything twice.”

“Right. Really, now? How come?” Liam questions, clearly interested.

Harry swallows. He doesn’t like being the centre of attention – his disorder has caused him to become an introvert, and he almost never talks to people apart from his family because he’s grown afraid of conversations. “I don’t know? It’s a defect in my brain, I think.” And no matter how much he tries to keep it in, he can’t. “I don’t know? It’s a defect in my brain, I think.”

“Okay, well. We all have defects, maybe.”

And maybe they did.

* * *

“I’m so bored!” Louis exclaims five minutes later, and Harry reckons he doesn’t really know him well, but in spite of that, he may have been expecting it. “I saw some board games in the cabinet, though. Anyone want to entertain me?”

And he doesn’t know what it is about the lad, but something – maybe the mischievous glint in his eyes or his theatrical facial expressions – about him makes Harry _want_ to talk, to actually speak to him and have a conversation and that’s something that hasn’t actually happened before.

But Harry’s never really one to plunge into the deep so he takes a baby step and says, “Sure, Louis.”

And the lad dazzles him with his teeth in a broad smile and hops on the magazine pages to reach the cabinet and Harry just mutters again, “Sure, Louis.”

And they all end up playing Monopoly, after Zayn disinfected the pawns.

Harry loosens up while playing and he has a warm fuzzy feeling in his belly and it’s quite nice.

“Chance!” he calls. “Chance! You have won a crossword competition. Collect hundred pounds.” He smiles when Niall, who’s responsible for the bank, gives him a paper banknote. “You have won a crossword competition. Collect hundred pounds.”

“ _Fucking suck my dicks you cunts.”_

“I think I’ll pass,” Louis informs him cheerily, and when he catches Harry’s eye, he winks.

And Harry hates getting flustered so easily, but well. He can’t stop the corners of his mouth from turning upwards, either. Louis pats his thigh under the table and it should be illegal because he has no idea what it does to the other boy.

And then it’s Louis’ turn and Harry chuckles quietly at his frown when Liam accidentally places his pawn on the line between two squares and he moves it to the middle of it, because. Harry is just a people-pleaser, and he loves it when he earns one of Louis’ golden smiles.

“Say, guys? Do you mind if I open the window for a bit? Just to air the room out a bit.”

“No, not at all,” Liam says.

“Yeah, it’s cold outside!” Niall complains at the same time.

But Zayn opens the window anyway, even though it’s the fifth time he’s done that in less than an hour.

Louis is a child, Harry discovers. Not really, but he is – for example, he’s determined to buy a particular street because _the houses look so beautiful and symmetrical_ , even though it’s not very tactical and Niall states that he’s positive Louis doesn’t have enough money for it. And unsurprisingly, he’s right.

So Harry lends him the money – after Niall complains that it’s against the rules and neither of them listen – and Louis presses his lips to his right cheek and then to his left, because there has to be symmetry, doesn’t there? And Harry doesn’t mind in the slightest, not at all.

Bu eventually they grow tired of the game because Monopoly really never ends, and they’re all just talking to each other.

“Y’know,” Louis says, “I once went to this group session thing, for my disorder.”

Niall laughs. “What was it like? Crying and eating ice cream? Because I’d not be entirely averse to that.”

And there are chuckles and smiles because Niall’s laugh is a bit contagious and Harry likes it. It feels like friends.

“No, but, like. We should try it, maybe? A group session, by ourselves?”

“How does it work then?” Zayn asks, casually rubbing some kind of disinfecting soap on his hands.

“Basically everyone just introduces themselves and explains what their disorder is, and then everyone focuses on one person for like, five minutes, to help them overcome their tic. It’s not going to solve everything, of course, but it can be a start?”

“I want to try it,” Harry says immediately, enthusiastically. “I want to try it.”

So they do.

They don’t need to introduce themselves, because they know who the others are already. They just start, and they start with Niall.

“You’re not allowed to count or calculate anything for a whole minute,” Liam announces.

Niall huffs. “I can do that easily, y’know.”

“Good, then,” and there’s a smile in the words somewhere. “Go.”

And it’s quiet, because no one quite knows what to do know.

After a few seconds, Zayn speaks. “Guys, I think we should talk to him? I mean, he won’t be provoked to count if everyone’s silent, right?”

“Right,” Louis agrees. “So, Niall… What, uh, did you eat for lunch?”

Niall laughs. “Oh! Well, let me –” And his fingers move as if he was about to count on them, but then they don’t. “I had… some. Chicken parmesan. With spaghetti of which I do not know the number of strings of. And.... a few French fries and chicken nuggets and a burger.”

Liam blinks and Zayn giggles, funnily enough. “Are you sure that’s it?”

“Yeah. I ate at home, you see, but then I got hungry on my way here, so.”

“But that was a lame question anyway, Louis – how about this: what is the air-speed velocity of an unladen swallow?” Zayn questions.

“It’s – uh. I. Don’t know.”

“How about the number of existing languages?”

“No idea.”

“Olympic sports?”

“I…”

“Times Liam’s cursed ever since you met?”

“Eh –”

“Seasons you’ve experienced in your lifetime?”

“Seventy-eight! Seventy-eight, for god’s sake. This is impossible.” Niall’s face is red from held-in answers and it looks so pained that it would be funny to Harry, but it isn’t. Because he knows what it’s like.

And that’s really why it works. They barely met each other, they barely _trust_ each other, but the one thing that all five of them know for sure is that they will not laugh at one another. Because they’ve all had people laughing at them and they’ve all been repudiated, and they wouldn’t, couldn’t do that to someone else. _Because they know what it’s like._

So no one laughs and everyone understands. But they started with Niall and they started with failing and it was quite demoralising, to be honest.

“It’s okay, Niall,” says Liam softly, his eyes even more soft, blinking. “It’s only natural, the first time. At least you gave it a try, yeah?”

Niall huffs and nods and he tries to hide it, but he’s disappointed with himself.

“So… Zayn then?” Louis asks.

Zayn can’t wash his hands for a whole minute, nor open the window – but it has to be harder than it sounds, right?

So they talk about diseases and dust and how filthy their hands are because they forgot to wash them, waving them in the direction of the terrified boy. It doesn’t take long for Zayn to start hyperventilating and rush to the loo.

“Well,” Niall sighs.

But Louis stops him with a, “No, don’t. Don’t give up, or anything. I know that this experiment won’t let us all get rid of our tics – but it might help, yeah? Practice makes perfect, and all.”

Harry likes that, how Louis is determined to help. He isn’t even doing this for him, he’s doing it for _them_ , and that’s pretty selfless and lovable.

“Even if it just helps one of us,” he says, because he likes agreeing with Louis for some reason, “I’ll consider this mission accomplished.”

And Niall makes an approving noise and Liam nods and Louis looks at him proudly, smiling.

“Even if it just helps one of us… I’ll consider this mission accomplished.”

“Your turn, then, Harry?” Niall asks, “Zayn will be back in, roughly estimated, six seconds.”

“Sure, sure.”

And exactly six seconds later, Zayn appears. When they look at Niall, he just shrugs and mutters, “I took the average of his previous run-offs,” as if that’s all there is to it – and to him, it probably is.

“You can’t repeat anything for a whole minute, Hazza.”

“Okay… okay.”

“Starting now! Let’s ask him questions, guys. Right – uh. What do you do for a living? Or are you still studying?”

“Still studying. Home school.” He takes a deep breath and bites his lower lip because he violently has to keep the words back, but it’s hard, it strains his mind, even hurts a bit. He thinks it lasts about four seconds – but if you really want to know, ask Niall.

“Stillstudyinghomeschool! Shit. Shit.”

And he sees Louis’ hopeful face dishearten slightly, kind of hates himself for it. He stares at his toes then.

“S’alright, we’ll try again. When did you _kiss my ass, bitch_ – uh. Start echoing yourself?” Liam asks kindly, always kindly – and it’s ironic because if it weren’t Liam, it wouldn’t have been kind at all. He’s probably the kindest person Harry’s ever met – but he feels like he doesn’t _deserve_ the kindness, because he fucked up. Fucks up. Is still fucking up. Everything, always, fucking up.

“I don’t really know, I –” His voice falters because it’s a bit scary and he’s never learned how to be brave. “I don’t really, know, I… was bullied, as a kid. Might be the cause, I s’ppose.”

He isn’t going for pity, he isn’t. It’s just a question and he just answers, but he gets pity anyway. Maybe not pity – more like sympathy. Because _they know what it’s like_ , and Harry never thought it would feel this nice to have people know that, understand that, accept that.

It’s in that moment he realises what he’s missed.

Because there was gentleness shining out of chocolate eyes and someone grasping his hands and someone else patting his curls and _someone_ pressing lips to his temple – once, twice, symmetrical – and it’s all _warmth_ and _acceptance_ and maybe even something resembling love.

His vision is a bit blurred, but it doesn’t matter anyway.

“Was bullied, as a kid. Might be the cause, I s’ppose,” he chokes, but only because he has to.

It’s quiet for a while, comfortable, and then Zayn says, “Louis? Your turn then?”

The challenge Louis to walk over the lines on the floor without his magazine pages, and Louis is not one to refuse a challenge, not when he can help it. But sometimes, he can’t, and it’s difficult for him to accept.

There’s staring at lines, as if he’s willing them to disappear if he looks at them long enough, and there’s staring and no moving and. “I can’t,” he eventually mutters through his teeth, eyes frantic and cheeks flushed from the effort. He lets out a breath. “I can’t, fuck.”

But the thing is, Harry thinks, that Louis _can_. He _can_ , but if he won’t believe it himself he needs others to do that for him.

“I believe you can,” he encourages him, because it’s the obvious thing to do. “I believe you can.”

And Louis eyes meet his, and it may be the best feeling in the world. He’s not looking at him, he’s _looking_ at him – and that difference means the world, so he _looks_ back.

“Yeah, we believe in you, Louis!” Niall agrees, and then they’re all cheering him on and clapping, but still Louis looks – _looks_ – only at Harry, who never thought his stomach could feel this weird and tingly and good all at the same time.

So Louis tries again, he tries, panting and frowning and occasionally letting a frustrated sound slip from his lips – but Harry can see it, he won’t. It’s not that he can’t, he just won’t let himself, no matter how hard he tries.

“I can’t.”

And it’s alright, really.

Louis sinks back on his chair and his disappointment in himself is almost tangible – and Harry is sorry that it isn’t, because if it were, he’d wipe it away. And when blue searches for green again, it’s bathed in soothing and warmth. Before Harry catches himself, he’s leaning over and pulling the left corner of the lad’s mouth up with his thumb. Louis thanks him with his eyes and his hands grasp Harry’s other and makes it mirror his left one, because, well. Symmetry.

“Bunch of whores,” Liam coughs, but no one minds, not really. It kind of ruins the moment, that’s all. Harry lowers his hands, but the other boy refuses to let go – and the fuzzy feeling is kind of  hard to ignore, triggering the muscles at the corners of his mouth.

“Your turn then, Liam? No swear words for sixty seconds?”

“I’ll try.”

Liam does pretty well, all considered. According to Niall he lasts twenty-three seconds and a half, but by that time he’s completely choked up – the thinking about not-swearing increasing his urge to actually swear. So when he breaks, it’s violent and resembling to a punch in the gut.

“Fucking faggots!”

(Harry knows it’s not on purpose, Liam would never say that on purpose, but. _Fuckingfaggotsfuckingfaggotsfuckingfaggots._ Memories of kicks and punches and humiliation and sneering and _fuckingfaggots_. It’s the truth, he is, he deserved it. All of it.)

And Harry’s gone, the bathroom door slamming shut behind him. It’s pathetic, he _knows_ it is, but he can’t control it. He can’t control anything, do anything, it just happens like everything with him seems to, whether he agrees with it or not. He slides down against the cold, white tiles of the wall and the contrast with the warmth he’d felt before was painful.

His eyes are stinging and his lips quavering and he’s trying to hold himself together, but it’s almost as hard as holding his tongue after one sentence.

But _then_.

Then, the door opens and there’s warmth flowing in, warmth wrapping around Harry’s frame, around his shoulders and his pulled up knees, and he can feel it, it’s physical. It’s touches and skin and brushing his tears away and it’s so _nice_ he chokes out a sob.

“Harry, Harry, look at me, love. Shh, don’t cry. Everything’s fine, he didn’t mean it, you know that. It’s okay, Harry. Shh, don’t cry.” Murmured phrases became repetitive until Harry stopped gasping for breath and inhaled, exhaled, inhaled. Soft hands were caressing, stroking everywhere – his hair, his face, his arms, his legs.

“I’m sorry,” Harry croaked eventually, “I’m sorry.”

He lifted his head to see Louis crouching beside him, vanilla-scented breath fanning out on his face. It was like medicine, healing him.

“You don’t have to be sorry, Hazza. You shouldn’t be sorry.”

“I overreacted. I… overreacted.”

“D’you want to tell me about it?”

And strangely, he did. He’d never told anyone, _anyone_ , about it – never wanted to. But he did now, because there was something in Louis’ voice, a little creak and feelings and _Louis_ , and Harry just wants to tell him.

So he does.

And when he’s finished, Louis is fuming on the inside, furious blue shining, but soft and sweet on the outside. It’s exactly what Harry needs. And by the time Harry echoed himself, telling his story for the second time, Louis has his arms wrapped tightly around Harry, entirely, face pressed into his neck.

(Harry thinks he can feel his lips, but he’s not sure.)

But Louis, being Louis, is reassuring him and comforting him and telling him that nothing was ever his fault and that he didn’t deserve that and that he’s really quite wonderful and he likes him a bit of a lot and there are butterfly kisses on salty skin, tear tracks vanishing swiftly.

But the kisses are always, always divided evenly between left and right, because that’s just a part of Louis.

“I like you a bit of a lot too,” Harry whispers, and because it really is a part of him, it’s followed by, “I like you a bit of a lot too.”

And Louis lips touch his mouth then, because it’s symmetrical, isn’t it?

* * *

When they go back to the waiting room (holding hands, because why not?), Harry is flooded by Liam’s heartfelt apologies.

“Oh my god Harry, I’m honestly so sorry! I’m sor- oh shit, you’ve been crying, haven’t you? Oh god. I can’t even tell you how sorry I am. I just. Shit. I’m so sorry.”

But it’s not his fault, so Harry hugs him tightly and tells him so. Twice.

And then Niall scrapes his throat and says, “Uhm, guys… You might have missed something, while you two were in there doing your thing, but. Louis. D’you remember what happened when you ran to the loo?”

Louis frowns a bit and shakes his head. “No, I mean, I just wanted to get to Harry, y’know? He was upset, and,” – he’s blushing then, and _it’s adorable_ – “and, yeah.”

Harry squeezes his hand and smiles. He’s been smiling a lot today, and he loves it.

“Well, that’s great,” Niall grins, and it’s close to a coo, “but you know what else is? When you were rushing to your lover’s side, you walked over the floor.”

There’s surprise for everyone, gasps and realisation and, “I stepped over the _lines?_ ”

“You did it, Lou!” And there’s a celebration kiss, just because they can. “You did it, Lou.”

They’re all elated, really, teeth showing brilliantly.

“So our experiment did succeed then,” concludes Zayn.

“It’s just one of us, but mission accomplished anyway,” says Harry proudly. “It’s just one of us, but mission accomplished anyway.”

But then Liam gasps. “Wait! It’s not just one of us. You,” and he points at Zayn, “You overcame your fear as well.”

“What did I do then?” The dark-haired boy is astonished.

But Harry realises then. “You grasped my hands before! You grasped my hands before.”

“When Harry told us he used to be bullied when he was a kid, remember? We were comforting him, and you grasped his hands.”

Zayn remembers then. “Yeah, but I wasn’t thinking about it then. I just wanted to, y’know. I was thinking about Harry.”

“Maybe that’s the thing!” exclaims Niall. “We’ve all been too focused on ourselves, so it didn’t work. But maybe if we focus on others, we forget about our tics? Has anyone else done it, then?”

“I’ve said everything twice so far. I’ve said everything twice so far.”

“Can’t remember any curse that hasn’t burst out anyway. Niall?”

The Irish lad grimaces slightly, but it’s immediately replaced by a smile again. “Still counting everything.”

“Niall,” Harry says. “Niall, how many times have we cheered for Louis when he tried to step past the lines?”

“Uh…”

“How many times have we cheered for Louis when he tried to step past the lines?”

“I… don’t know?” It’s confused and hopeful at the same time.

“You didn’t count it then?” Liam pipes up.

“No…”

“Three out of five!” It worked, they’ve been doing a bit of this and a bit of that and it actually _worked_. They didn’t get rid of their tics, definitely not, but they overcame them once and that’s a start. Three out of five isn’t bad, it isn’t bad at all.

Harry _looks_ at Louis, and Louis _looks_ back, and he feels his dimples coming up.

The door of the waiting room opens then, and the assistant enters. “Good evening,” she smiles politely, “I’ve just had a phone call from the doctor. He said his plane just landed and he will take a taxi to the office. He will be here in half an hour.”

“Half an hour?” Niall asks, because it’s become some kind of tradition. “Thirty minutes, thousand eight hundred seconds?”

“Yes,” the assistant says, “We do apologise for the inconvenience.” And it’s just an echo of what she said last time, just the same, and she leaves the room.

“Well,” Zayn begins, “I’m out of here. It’s getting late, and I can’t miss my last train.” Still, he doesn’t move, reluctant to go.

“Should we go to?” Louis asks, and Harry’s heart flutters because it’s _we_ and _us_ and it sounds so natural. He nods, though.

“I’m hungry,” Niall informs them, “I need to get some dinner, man.”

Liam just sighs and says that he has time, that he’ll wait.

“You’ll get over your Tourette’s someday, Liam.”

“Yeah, mate. We all believe in you.”

But even though they said they needed to go, it’s as if something – the air – ties them to the room.

They exchange phone numbers, hometowns, hugs  - not Zayn though, because he overcame his tic once but _let’s not overdo it, guys_ – and promises to go out for drinks.

So they all leave, except for Liam, who sits back on his chair again and looks through a magazine, just like when Harry saw him for the first time, muttering under his breath. “ _Shithole of wankers_ ,” Harry thinks he hears.

Harry and Louis leave together, to Harry’s flat because it’s pretty close and Louis claims he has nowhere to go anyway – with that mischievous glint in his eyes again, laughing loudly when Harry dares to doubt his statement.

(Because Harry knows he does have somewhere to go, but revels in the fact that Louis would rather stay with him.)

And after Harry replies, Louis presses their lips together firmly, tongue caressing his chapped lips – Harry’s sure he’ll never taste vanilla without thinking of Louis again, but he doesn’t mind.

By the time Louis’ mouth leaves his, he’s so dazzled he forgets his echo.

They leave together, and it even though it’s winter, Harry’s world is warming up and shining.


End file.
